Reparatione ad Ruinam
by MockingVenus
Summary: What more could he have done other than carve the message into his flesh, pouring out his red through a deep indigo for your eyes to drink? Had you truly been thirsting for such deep comradery that you utterly refused to acknowledge his own devoir at hand; or was it merely the trepidation of ruining it all that kept you at bay?


Thick sinewy strands of silk run down your scabrous gullet, once again flaring up your already irritated lungs. A cough here, a wheeze there, it's all been done before. You run your anhydrous tongue past a row of scum-ridden teeth and out to lull itself along the pigment-less blisters you take to calling lips. Can't exactly be putting yourself together if you're just going to ruin it in eight minutes. Embers of dissatisfaction begin to ignite themselves once more within your nutrient sack, a bothersome reminder of the truth to your thoughts. Yes indeed, you can't be putting yourself together just to ruin everything in eight minutes.

You've been laying around for far too long now and will pay for it with each stark outcry from every enraged muscle you've failed to use thus far. Beginning with the digits, you unfurl your talons hearing them groan and crackle from disuse. Time has been cruel in all the ways that you now see how you should have used these hands; then again time has been nothing more than a farcical act crudely assembled by the cretins of your past. After a firm regiment of working your carpals, your hands are now free to lament over your own failings. Your hands, these tools, have been misused far beyond your past understanding of what they were meant to be, instruments of violence. How strange you found it to be when a set of larger digits wound themselves between your own. Even stranger was the look you received after plucking them back as if they'd been thrust into a furnace. You close your eyes, furrowing your brow, berating yourself for keeping your own irons so disheveled that you had failed to notice the calloused hands buried deep within your fire.

Groping along the edge of your daystand, a cold sensation pricks your fingertips. The metal of your glasses, left untouched for days now, is a foreign sensation to your face. Without them you are nearly blind, though you have become dolorously doubtful of your perception even with their aid. You consider briefly getting them adjusted. Maybe there's a lurking variable here that you can load your burden onto without tasting the sickening bile of regret. Though the thought is puerile, it's a pattern so deeply engraved within your person that you doubt you're even capable of escaping it. What exactly is the underlying problem here? Is it merely your inability to recognize what's before your own face or your failure to comprehend your hand in the casting of the die?

Unsnarling your spine, you find every vertebrae popping to be a relief. It had been what, two, three days now since you've fully extended yourself? There was once a time when you'd long for rest like this; grievously now you desire other comforts. The amenity of a bed or recoupracoon seems more to you now like that or a pile of filth considering the opulence you've been granted. A bed gives no warmth, nor does it cater to your restless thrashing, occasionally brushing the hair from your fevered face. A bed does not listen as you lean your back against its side, rambling for hours on end about the vacuous troubles of your life. A bed, simply put, does not care.

You are sitting up now, your legs voicing their opinion of such a movement through the shrill cry of your tendons. Fucking hell, the backs of your knees hurt. This is what you get for abusing what you've built for yourself. Stretching your arms a bit before steadying yourself on the bed, the thought you'd contentedly suppressed just moments ago resurfaced itself. _Why put yourself together if you're just going to ruin it again? _

Your legs, now fully protracted beneath you cease their cantankerous spasms and once more obey. Your legs had been your fail-safe. After learning just how your hands had mislead you, your legs were meant to fix this. After a surly monologue held between yourself and the air around you it had been decided that you could mend everything with walking and a few cleverly placed words. Perhaps he would understand that you were simply anxious of the unsuspected contact or that you hadn't given yourself the time to think about the implications of your actions. Whatever the case had been, you had intended to reconstruct what had been put together. Instead you had found yourself marching across the trembling bridge connecting your lawn rings until stopping dead in your tracks. It hadn't been the rain readying itself to wash you down into the chasm, nor had it been the vexation of your Judas hands that had made you stop. Rather it had been the lurking thought that this was something you could not repair. And, if in fact you could repair it, would you just end up destroying it again? You turned around that night, saturated in the cold rain and pernicious guilt.

That night you had deigned yourself to acquitting any role you played from the addling predicament that you'd found yourself in. Surely it was his fault for not being more assertive in his intent. Of course, he was to blame for the shame of rejection he felt. On the surface of your being, somewhere just barely skimming your carapace, you were able to delude yourself to such endemic scrutiny; though by the end of the night you'd found yourself falling deeper and deeper into the schism of your psyche.

By the next morning it had been made pellucidly obvious that your hands had played the dominant role. Reminiscing through a night of coughing and fever you could recall nothing more than every warning he had given you as to his intent. What more could he have done other than carve the message into his flesh, pouring out his red through a deep indigo for your eyes to drink? Had you truly been so thirsty for such deep comradery that you utterly refused to acknowledge his own devoir at hand; or was it merely the trepidation of ruining it all that kept you at bay? Regardless of following your circular logical fallacies, you find it stunningly clear you don't wish to continue this path.

You take a step, two, three, until the sixteen steps that are necessary to make it to your personal ablution trap, or how he would so vehemently chastise you for calling it that, _the shower, _have been made. After cleansing yourself thoroughly you step back into your block, allowing a chill to follow up your spine. You dress yourself in a clean pair of clothes, taking the time to lather your face in the typical makeup you wear, even if only to ruin in in the near future. Brushing out your hair, you grimace at yourself in your reflection glass trying to assemble the arrogant grin you've been working so hard to find lately. After finding yourself acceptable to face the dark night sky, you begin your trek to the house of the archeradicator.

Then night is cold and unyielding, its moon a hazy silver sliver in the sky crested with an array of dim lifeless stars. You pull your jacket closer as a harsh wind blows you about on the rope bridge. You wonder for a brief moment just how long that bridge has been there. Was it Equius himself that built it? Shrugging past your thoughts you continue the journey to his lawn ring fully aware of the nausea overtaking your senses.

On his door you knock eight times in the same ardent manor you always had. Conceivably with such disregard to the past he may take the hint and move onward, ignoring what had transpired just a you hoped he would. Morosely instead, he answers the door and gives a look much colder than the swarthy wind around you. In the moment you are taken off-guard. It takes a moment for you to realize his gaze isn't frozen, but simply without warmth. This is what it feels like to be an outsider, and you suddenly feel unwelcome. You see now that just as you had decided to fix this, he had decided to allow it a merciful end. Whether it had been for his own shame or sanity, the choice is no longer yours to be made. You say no more, dismissing yourself from his presence.

From the highest block in your tower, you watch the bridge twist and bend in the wind. Craven eyes fixed upon the flimsy rope holding it together, you wonder if tonight will be the night it finally breaks; and if it did, who would be the one to fix it? What would he think if he saw you out there, doing the menial labor of something so simple as constructing a bridge? One, to add, that was not even yours to tamper with.

You can see him now, walking out into the murky night, shooing Aurthour back into the house, most likely assuring him that he will be fine on his own. With that he takes off, over the hill and far away from his usual route. He's off to find conversation elsewhere and your stomach feels cold. It's almost as if another iron has been plucked back, allowing your furnace to burn more callously. He's gone now, past the horizon and heading toward the gleaming hives of favor. From the corner of your eye you can see the bridge sway and then finally snap. For a moment you stand, calculating your movements, then seat yourself again, drawing the curtain shut. Why bother fixing something that you'll likely ruin again?


End file.
